


The Shades of Pemberley

by cnell



Series: Turning Page Productions [9]
Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-12 10:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cnell/pseuds/cnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzie and Darcy grapple with questions of love and family legacy during a trip to London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to [lulabo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lulabo/pseuds/lulabo) for the beta read.

September 2015

 

“I should pack some boots.” Lizzie’s muffled voice emerged from the depths of her walk-in closet. “I need boots, right?”

Charlotte looked up from her iPad and leaned over from her spot at the foot of the bed to examine the knee-high boots Lizzie was brandishing with one hand. “Not those,” she said promptly.  “You’re going to be walking all over London, they’ll blister your feet. Take the flat-heeled ones.”

Lizzie made a frustrated noise, but followed her best friend’s advice. At 10 PM the night before her trip, she was in no position to argue, especially when Charlotte was good enough to sleep over and drive her to the airport the next morning. They’d tried to make a fun evening of it, ordering pizza and opening a bottle of wine, but Lizzie was so nervous she repacked her suitcase three times before Charlotte finally put her foot down and started directing things like a project manager.

“Hey,” Charlotte remarked, going back to her iPad and stretching out on her stomach across the goose down comforter, “did you know your hotel has two gourmet restaurants and its own Harrod’s shop in the lobby?”

“Oh, lord.” Lizzie hid her face in the row of coats and sweaters hanging next to her. “I just – I can’t. I cannot.”

Darcy had sprung the hotel on her earlier in the week during one of their lunchtime strolls through the Pemberley Digital art gallery, mere hours before he’d left for a conference in Chicago. He had the good grace to look sheepish as he showed her the reservation on his phone – eight nights in one of the Executive Rooms of the London Corinthia.

One look at the website had brought her to a standstill in the middle of the crowded hall. “You’re joking.”

“It’s central,” Darcy said.

“It’s a five-star hotel! It’s ridiculous! I’m doing a video series on Dickens and social inequality, for crying out loud!”

He had placed his hand on her back and urged her forward with the patient, soothing manner of someone who had prepared for an argument. “It is for business purposes, and for the convenience of my European associates. I am covering any expense beyond the usual allowance out of my own pocket, an expense you are welcome to share with me. Besides,” he added cheerfully, “it is our first attempt at travelling together and your first visit to London. We ought to make the most of it.”

She’d huffed in exasperation and shoved his phone back at him. “ _We_ will also be matching the total price of our stay with a donation to the charity of my choice.”

“I can assure you that Pemberley’s philanthropic efforts…”

“Not good enough for me, buster. You’re lucky I’m not making you volunteer at a soup kitchen. _Yet_.”

Lizzie hurried out of the closet with an armful of sweaters and her flat-heeled boots, which she dumped in a heap on the floor next to her suitcase, backpack and camera bag. She was dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and her hair was bundled up into a messy knot. Curling up cross-legged on the rug, she grabbed her wine glass from the bedside table and drained it.

Charlotte surreptitiously hid the bottle behind the corner of the bed. “Better go easy on the wine. Jetlag will be bad enough without a hangover.”

“Yes, mother.” Lizzie dug through the pile of sweaters. “It’s supposed to be chilly in London. Is London cold worse than San Francisco cold? Here, I found this on sale last week, what do you think?” She shook out a lumpy pullover of cable-knit gray wool and held it up.

“It’s great, if you’re planning to get in some cod fishing while you’re there.” Charlotte pulled a favorite blue cardigan out of the pile instead, dropped it into the suitcase and glanced through Lizzie’s backpack to make sure her plane tickets and brand-new passport were safe in the inside pocket. “You’re not going to need half this stuff on the flight, you know. Do you realize how heavy all these books are? Why don’t you just download them to your tablet?”

Lizzie’s horrified face appeared over the top of the suitcase lid. “I’m not going to read Charles Dickens from a screen! That would be sacrilege!”

“God, fine, whatever. Just don’t come crying to me when your arms fall off on the way through customs.” Rolling her eyes, Charlotte resumed browsing through the Corinthia website. “A four-storey spa with marble lounges, are you serious? Geez, Darcy, save something for the honeymoon.”

“ _Hey_.” Lizzie jabbed a finger at her. “We do not say that word. That is number four on the banned words list.”

“Oh, come on,” said Charlotte. She propped her chin in her hand and gave Lizzie a knowing smile. “You guys are so obviously testing the waters with this London thing. And who’s this crazy intimidating lady you’re supposed to meet?”

Lizzie got to her feet, scooped up the rest of the sweaters and pitched them in the general direction of the closet. “Nora Chancellor. Acclaimed publishing executive, close friend of William’s parents, more or less his godmother. So yeah, not freaking out or anything.”

“That sounds pretty serious, Lizzie. You must have known what you were signing up for.”

“I know.” Lizzie flopped onto the bed next to her friend and pressed her hands over her eyes. “Just let me try to pretend this is a carefree vacation, okay? I’m not ready to make any decisions right now.”

Charlotte looked at her, then passed her the wine. “Here. You need this more than I thought.”

Lizzie glared half-heartedly as she took a swig straight out of the bottle. “One of these days, bestie of mine, you will find a guy or girl who’s worth the effort and then I will tease the _shit_ out of you.”

“Ha. Don’t hold your breath.”

 

* * *

 

Charlotte got Lizzie to the check-in counter by half past five the next morning, armed with coffee, a detailed trip itinerary and an extra-long hug. As jittery and sleep-deprived as she was, Lizzie didn’t really mind the airport and the flight to the East Coast. She often flew to other cities for work these days, and the mundane rituals of travelling alone were weirdly comforting to her.

It was something else altogether when she arrived at Newark in the afternoon and went to meet Darcy at the international lounge. He had insisted on flying deluxe business class to London – it wasn’t even an indulgence like the hotel, comfortable airline travel was practically a human rights issue with him. Lizzie stepped into the lounge area listed on her boarding pass and found herself standing in a huge airy room with etched glass walls, a fully-stocked complementary bar and a crowd of very serious-looking business people, all tapping and swiping at some mobile device or other.

For a moment all the faces blurred together and she couldn’t see Darcy anywhere. Even with her tickets and passport in one hand, she was seized with anxiety that she’d wandered into the wrong place and the staff were going to kick her out. At last she spotted him among the sea of dark suits, half-rising from his chair to catch her attention, an odd mixture of relief and embarrassment in his face. She hurried over and sank gratefully into the seat next to his.

“William.” She glanced around the room and down at her hoodie, jeans and Chuck Taylor sneakers. “You didn’t tell me I should dress up for the airport.”

Darcy smiled wryly as he leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I have been surrounded by people in formal attire all week. You are a welcome sight, believe me.” He helped her slide her backpack off her shoulders, then grunted in surprise as he lowered it to the floor. “Goodness, Lizzie, what’s in this?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, stretching her sore back. “I can hear Charlotte gloating already.”

She spent much of the layover tweeting comments and pictures from her phone – the view of the plane from the lounge windows, the filet mignon she had for dinner, Darcy working on his laptop, Darcy noticing the camera and mock-glaring at it. (“The fans made me do it,” Lizzie said innocently, pointing at her Twitter feed.)

They boarded the flight at half past six. For a while she distracted herself by listening to the various British accents of nearby passengers and rummaging through her amenity kit – it included gourmet chocolates, which Lizzie stuffed in her face so quickly that Darcy grinned and gave her his too – but before she knew it the plane was speeding down the runway and the full significance of the journey ahead seemed to be pressing her back into her roomy seat. As they took off and circled toward the coast, the lights of greater New York were just starting to blink on, glowing in the dusk like a giant circuit board.

“I’ve never crossed an ocean before,” she said, gazing solemnly out the window.

Darcy hummed in reply. He was already engrossed in his laptop again. She poked him in the side. “Hey. Don’t be so blasé about it, I’m having a moment here.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head clear. “Months-long shareholder disputes about advertising tend to drain one’s enthusiasm.” He glanced at the view, then smiled and laid his hand over hers on the armrest. “I’m glad you came, Lizzie.”

And there it was – the hesitant, searching expression that crossed his face whenever he looked at her for too long. It had been like this since July, when Jane and Bing’s engagement made the topic of marriage unavoidable, and the vulnerability of it all made Lizzie want to cling to him and hide at the same time.

At least she was dealing with it, she thought as she offered a small smile and squeezed his fingers. Uncertainty and awkwardness were better than feeling like a coward.

Darcy sighed as he returned to his work, a furrow deepening in his forehead. Lizzie angled a curious look at the columns of figures on his screen. “Why are things so tense at Pemberley these days, anyway? I thought the latest version of Domino was doing well.”

“It is. Unnervingly so, in fact.” He closed the spreadsheet with a parting frown and raked his fingers through his hair. “We designed Domino to be a storytelling and social media application, but it’s taken a turn for the commercial and now it seems to be getting away from me. Teleconferences and vanity projects were not exactly what I had in mind.”

“Well…” She toyed with the handle of her camera bag tucked beside her feet. “They’re keeping your revenues up, at least.”

“I suppose. I’m just not entirely comfortable with our direction. Some members of the board are behind me on this, but others...” Then he stopped himself, and the next moment he was side-eyeing her, playing it off as a joke. “Hmm. Perhaps I’ve said too much.”

Letting it drop for now, Lizzie scoffed. “Please, like I’d go into the app business.”

“All the same,” he said.

The flight attendants served everyone a nightcap before unfolding their beds, handing out pillows and blankets and dimming the lights of the cabin. But for all their efforts, Lizzie could only toss restlessly while Darcy stayed up reviewing endless paperwork, jotting notes in the margins with his meticulous handwriting.

Hours later, somewhere above the North Atlantic, Lizzie opened her eyes and found that Darcy had fallen asleep mid-paragraph. His head had dropped to one side, his glasses slipping down his nose and his lips parted slightly. He looked young when he slept like that, at odds with the touches of gray hair at his temples. She watched him for a moment, lost in thought, then gently lifted the glasses from his face and turned off the light.

 

* * *

 

The British Isles were wrapped in cloud. Lizzie stared blearily at the intricate layers of damp, heavy gray, shadowy and strange in the pre-dawn light, as the plane made its long descent toward Heathrow.  A brief gap in the stratus revealed a black curve of coastline far below.

“Where are we?” she breathed, as if they’d crossed not just to another continent but also back in time and into a fairy story. “Am I looking at Ireland right now?”

“Yes, I daresay you are.” Darcy glanced up from yesterday’s _Financial Times_ to check the flight path monitor, then raised a teasing eyebrow at the Earl Grey tea and scones with cream and jam she’d ordered for breakfast. “A bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

She swatted at him. “Oh, be quiet and eat your egg whites.”

Daylight was just beginning to filter through the clouds when they landed. It took half an hour to get through customs and the echoing commotion of the baggage claim, and then they were outside on a chilly London morning, walking toward a queue of taxis. Normally Darcy would have a car waiting, he explained, but he thought she would appreciate the experience.

It was shrewd of him. Lizzie was so charmed by the drive through the city in their retro-looking cab with its round yellow headlamps, she forgot to feel nervous or sleepy. By the time they reached the ornate department stores and double-decker buses of Brompton Road, her nose was almost pressed against the window. The first glimpse of Big Ben from Green Park made her gasp and clutch Darcy’s wrist; Buckingham Palace and the flag-lined Mall rendered her speechless. The cab passed beneath the Admiralty Arch, swung past Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar’s Square and came to a stop next to a grand Victorian building overlooking the river.

“Here we are,” Darcy said. He was trying not to look too pleased with himself, and failing. Lizzie could only blink up at the stonework and rows of gleaming windows as she followed him into the hotel.

The lobby of the Corinthia had polished marble floors, leather chairs and a gigantic crystal chandelier suspended beneath a domed skylight. The sleek-haired woman at the reception desk took one look at Darcy and Lizzie, smiled indulgently and asked if they would like to upgrade to a suite.

Lizzie kicked Darcy’s foot, just a bit too hard. He cleared his throat. “Another time, perhaps.”

“This is a bit much, William,” she said, when they were finally alone in their spacious cream-and-gold room. She turned from the fresh roses on the table to shake her head at him. “You’d better not have any more expensive surprises for me.”

“Duly noted.” He gave her a cajoling look, watching her from the edge of the pristine king-sized bed with his hands clasped in front of him.  “Now please, do try to enjoy yourself – and come here so I can kiss you properly.”

She rolled her eyes and made a face, but crossed the room to sit next to him. He sighed when their lips met, as if this moment had been on his mind for days. His arm wrapped firmly around her waist, fingers searching for her skin underneath her sweatshirt, and pulled her with him as he tipped back across the bed.

The bed was the most comfortable thing she’d ever laid down on. “Oh my god,” she moaned. Kissing forgotten, she squirmed onto her stomach and nuzzled her face into the soft pillows. “Sweet baby Jesus, I take it all back. I never want to move again.”

“Well, _that_ backfired.” Darcy leaned over her and brushed her hair out of her eyes. “You’ll never fight off the jetlag if you fall asleep now, Lizzie.”

“Mnnh,” she said.

“Come on.” He stood up, tugging at her arms. “Up you get.”

Fortunately there was an equally luxurious shower, which suited their purposes quite well; and they had all of central London to keep them occupied for the rest of the morning. The air was cool against Lizzie’s face and the low gray clouds were edged with yellow sunlight and everything looked so incredibly British. They walked back up to Trafalgar Square and toured the National Portrait Gallery until the eyes of all those royals and writers seemed to be following them and Lizzie had to flee outside to the front steps, where she took selfies and tweeted them to her viewers (#seewhatididthere).

Darcy had planned a leisurely stroll down Whitehall after that, but when Lizzie realized it was nearly nine o’clock she grabbed his hand and dragged him the rest of the way to the Houses of Parliament. “You dear old fellow,” she murmured, her head tilted far back, as Big Ben thundered the hour above them.

“You’ll get used to that rather quickly,” said Darcy.

“Speak for yourself.”

They walked across the bridge for more pictures, considered a ride on the London Eye and decided against it, and doubled back to see Westminster Abbey. At a café near the cathedral, Darcy plied Lizzie with tea and sandwiches and looked at guidebooks with her, anything to keep them both awake. Then there was St. James’s Park and a closer look at Buckingham Palace, already thronged with tourists.

Lizzie leaned against the railing at the edge of the Victoria Memorial. “Do you think Kate and Wills are in there?”

“I believe they live in Kensington Palace.” Darcy gazed sternly at the national landmark in front of him. “Appalling architecture. What were they thinking?”

They managed to stay all the way through the Changing of the Guard, the red coats and bearskin hats swimming in front of Lizzie’s eyes and the noisy crowd ringing in her ears. Finally, in the early afternoon, when she was swaying on her feet and even Darcy couldn’t hide his yawns anymore, they made their way back to the hotel.

The bed was glorious, heavenly as Lizzie sank beneath the covers.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hi, everyone!” Lizzie waved at the camera, then bounced excitedly on her toes. “This is so cool.” She was filming outside in the Victoria Embankment Gardens on a misty autumn afternoon. Her blue scarf was looped around her neck and wisps of hair had pulled loose from her braid to curl around her face.

“I’ve been in London for three days now, and I’ve barely made a dent in my list of places to see. But William’s in meetings a lot and my interview with Ms. Chancellor at Bloomsbury Publishing has been moved to the end of the week, so I have plenty of time to show you guys around.

“Behind me is the York Water Gate” – indicating a weather-worn stone structure behind a decorative iron fence. “Back in the 1620s when it was built by the Duke of … Something-or-other, we’ll edit that in later, those steps led from his house directly to the Thames. Which means I would be standing underwater right now.

“And behind _that_ is Buckingham Street, which as you all know because you’re good viewers who do your homework, is where David Copperfield lived with his landlady Mrs. Crupp when he got his job as a proctor back in Chapter 23. Dickens himself also lodged there for a while. Honestly, the fact that I’m walking around on the same streets he did is kind of delightfully creepy.”

She held up a battered paperback with a train ticket stub stuck between the pages. “Before we wrap up _David Copperfield_ and move on to the next book, I wanted to say one more thing about Emily’s story – and yes, I know I rant about literary heroines a lot. It just bugs me that for all of Dickens’ criticism of social injustice, he was still willing to punish Emily so harshly for being seduced by Steerforth. I mean, yeah, Steerforth ends up drowning, but Emily is ruined because she commits the crime of not ‘keeping to her station in life,’ and trusts a man who lies to her.”

Lizzie flipped the book open to the marked page and scowled at the offending passage. “The worst part is she knows on some level he’ll destroy her, but she seems helpless to do anything about it. And when he abandons her, she cuts herself off from her family and nearly dies of shame, and Dickens packs her off to Australia to be tragic and lonely forever, as a warning to women everywhere. As if the only options we have are to be virtuously married or publicly disgraced. It just…” She trailed off with an irritated sigh.

“Okay!” Smiling widely, she refocused on the camera and clapped the book shut. “Maybe a tiny bit close to home, there. I’m probably going to cut parts of that. But still, I like to imagine that Emily thrives in Australia and spends all her time riding horses through the Outback with her awesome new boyfriend – or hey, maybe her awesome new girlfriend.

“Anyway, keep your comments and video responses coming, and be sure to start on _Oliver Twist_ for our discussion next week. And now that several of you have started writing ‘Little Em’ly’s Outback Adventures’ as we speak, send it on over! I’ll post some of my favorites to the website later.”

 

* * *

 

“William Darcy, this is the 21st century and you are running a multinational corporation.”

“Really. I hadn’t noticed.” He was surprised at his own sarcasm. It was like something Lizzie would say, maybe even Lydia – which, considering his aunt’s aggravated growl over the phone, was probably why he said it. He crossed to the window outside the conference room and watched the buses rumbling by on the Strand three stories below.

“I suggest you start taking this seriously.” Catherine sounded even more domineering than usual, invigorated by power walking or dressing down the household staff or whatever it was she did at 7:30 AM, Pacific Standard Time. “Domino could be one of the greatest steps forward for Pemberley Digital in decades, if you would stop holding it back.”

“It could also undermine everything our company claims to represent,” he said flatly.

They had been through this argument many times. Certain people on the board of directors, Catherine included, had eagerly followed the Domino project ever since the Sanditon beta test – not for the quirky small-town stories the app had revealed, but for its marketing potential. The possibilities, they said, were endless. If Domino’s algorithms could automatically link to users’ social media accounts and hunt down the perfect waffle recipe based on vocal inflections, what could they do for targeted advertising and product placement? Pemberley Digital might even challenge Google on that front if it played its cards right.

It sounded reasonable from a business standpoint, but the blatant commercialism of the idea went against Darcy’s every instinct. Other board members, particularly those who had worked with his parents, expressed doubts as well; but pressure was building almost daily to reach a decision.

“I will not be rushed into this,” he said. “The privacy concerns alone require extensive discussion and legal counsel. We cannot change course so drastically without considering the implications.”

“You’re stalling,” his aunt declared. “You’ve distracted yourself with this indulgent idea of rambling around London with—”

“Catherine.” There was a dangerous note in his voice.

She paused, collecting herself. “The longer you drag your feet, the more Pemberley will fall behind. Your stakeholders are getting frustrated. Some are even accusing you of poor leadership.”

“And you agree?” A detached corner of his mind noted that his anger was identical to what he’d felt when she first nagged him about his posture when he was seven.

“No – not yet.” There was not a trace of compassion in the statement. “Sort this out, William. I have better things to do with my time than make excuses for you.”

 

* * *

 

“Kinda missing the days when I could fire up the camera and call someone a douchebag for five minutes, #tbqh.”

Lizzie’s thumb jabbed rapidly at the screen of her phone, then hovered over the “Tweet” button. Her 300,000-odd followers were one tap away, ready to decode her rather obvious subtext and jump in with messages of sympathy – “Ugh, does Darce-face have his head up his ass again?” or “Stop doing the thing, @wmdarcy!” or “I don’t like it when Mommy and Daddy fight!”

She winced, closed the app without tweeting and reached drearily for her wine glass. She didn’t like this either.

It had been nice at first – Lizzie exploring London with her camera and books while Darcy got his teleconferences and paperwork out of the way, and then meeting each other in town, just the two of them, for art house cinemas and galleries and a West End showing of “Billy Elliot the Musical” she insisted on seeing.

But there was something bothering him, something about board meetings and relentless phone calls from Catherine de Bourgh, and it seemed every time they started to relax and enjoy themselves he’d get distracted. He could barely talk to her without grumbling about investors in Germany or associates back in California – or gazing at her with that pleading look in his eyes, as if she could solve all his problems if she would only make up her mind about him, if she would just let him _ask_ …

And then tonight happened. They’d gone out for a late dinner in Covent Garden, hoping for a pleasant end to a long day; but Lizzie was tired and Darcy was in a bad mood, and he’d sent his entrée back to the kitchen claiming it was undercooked. His curt manner with the waiter got under her skin – this self-important rich man ordering people around while she, Lizzie Bennet the rich man’s girlfriend, sat there picking at her £10 salad – and suddenly she was wondering aloud if the pyramid-folded cloth napkins weren’t just a _smidge_ off the required 90 degree angle and whether she could possibly enjoy her meal if they were, knowing even as she said it that her sarcasm was too barbed, that she was pushing him too far, for no other reason than to prove she knew how.

“The chef makes £70,000 per year,” Darcy had snapped at her, at almost the exact moment she guessed he would, “but I’m sure your social activism is much appreciated.”

The rest of the evening was a study in passive-aggressive hostility, and when they returned to the hotel he announced he was going to try out the spa facilities “if that’s all right with you,” more or less daring her to mock him for it. She’d shrugged dismissively and stomped down to the hotel bar with her paperback under one arm, and now it was 11:42 PM and she felt like an idiot.

Lizzie picked up her phone again and opened a text message to Charlotte. It was mid-afternoon back home; her best friend would be somewhere near her coffee break. “How do I manage this?” she typed desperately. “How would this whole thing even work?”

Was this what marriage would be like? The demands of Pemberley’s legacy hanging over their heads, overshadowing their choices and goals from here on out? How could she even begin to meet that standard without losing her own identity in the process? What about her own company, small and eccentric but on the rise, with its passionate employees and thriving community of viewers that she loved so much? She couldn’t bear the thought of giving it up or scaling it back, but the growing competition between Turning Page Productions and Pemberley Digital was already a tricky aspect of their relationship. Continuing that battle against a hypothetical husband as famous as Darcy sounded like a recipe for divorce if she’d ever heard one.

Lizzie deleted the text message and pushed her glass away. Not even Charlotte’s advice would help this time, she realized with heavy certainty; she and Darcy had to work this out by themselves. Because as scary as their future looked to her right now, the idea of a future without him was even worse.

She paid the bill and went upstairs. The room was dark as she slipped inside and eased the door shut, but she could make out Darcy’s clothes tossed in an uncharacteristic heap on a chair, and the hunched curve of his shoulders beneath the covers of the bed. She stripped down to her underwear and camisole, leaving her own clothes on the floor, and climbed in next to him. The muscles of his back tensed, then slackened as she fitted herself close and whispered _I’m sorry_ against his skin.

He exhaled and pulled her arm tightly around him, their clasped hands tucked up against his chest. “So am I.”


	3. Chapter 3

Lizzie hunched over in her chair, wrapped in a hotel bathrobe with her arms hooked around her bare legs, and stared at the notes and news articles spread across the table. “I can’t believe I have to meet this woman by myself.”

Darcy smiled awkwardly as he buttoned his shirt. He had planned to introduce Lizzie to Nora Chancellor over lunch, but half an hour ago Ms. Chancellor sent an email asking Lizzie to come to Bloomsbury Publishing late that afternoon instead, right in the middle of a meeting he couldn’t get out of. It was fairly obvious she’d done it on purpose. “My apologies, again, for the short notice,” he said. “Nora’s schedule has always been unpredictable.”

“Yes, all those public feuds with book retailers must be very time consuming.” Lizzie scrunched her mouth into a dramatic pout and flipped the article she’d been reading face down. “This makes Catherine sound like a sleepy kitten in comparison. She’s going to hate me.”

“I’m sure she will not hate you, Lizzie.” Darcy draped a pair of blue neckties over his shoulder, trying to decide between them. “She can be a bit … blunt, shall we say, but if you are professional and forthright you will be fine. She told me on multiple occasions that she finds you very interesting.”

“Did she now.” She met his eyes in the mirror and pointed at the darker blue tie almost without thinking. “She wouldn’t happen to know about your starring role in my videos, by any chance?”

He busied himself folding the other tie and laying it aside. “Nora does not tend to miss such things.”

Lizzie dropped her forehead to her knees. “I am so dead.”

She heard his footsteps, then felt the quick pressure of a kiss on the back of her head. “Try not to worry,” he said patiently. “I will join you for dinner as soon as I can.”

He’d disappeared into the bathroom by the time she looked up. “Professional and forthright,” she grumbled, and slurped at her tea. “Big help there, Darcy.”

This would be more than just a get-to-know-you chat. Ms. Chancellor had agreed to a podcast interview about publishing in the digital age, and how Bloomsbury was taking advantage of online fandom culture following the phenomenon of _Harry Potter_. Lizzie had also hoped to collaborate with her somehow, maybe by promoting new titles through her book club series – but the more she heard about her, the more she wondered where she ever got such a presumptuous idea.

She took a deep breath and shuffled through her notes one more time. The upcoming video series for Médecins Sans Frontières was her flashiest achievement, so she needed to work it into the discussion as early as possible. As she tried to get the appropriate pages in order, she realized she’d forgotten to write down the impossibly German-sounding name of the television producer she’d met in New York and now she couldn’t remember it for the life of her. She wracked her brain before giving up and crossing to Darcy’s calendar lying on the dresser. He’d been writing the details of her schedule alongside his own for ages.

Sure enough, there was the producer’s name, penned neatly in the margin of Friday, July 31 – and then the calendar went straight to August 3. Lizzie blinked, flipping the pages back and forth to make sure. An entire weekend was missing.

For a moment she stood there in confusion, and then a thought grabbed her and she opened Darcy’s wallet next to the calendar, searching through the pockets behind his credit cards. And then she had to close her eyes and stifle a nervous laugh with both hands, because he had clipped out the page where she’d written “There’s a chance” the day they first discussed marriage after the New York trip, and was carrying it around with him like something out of a romance novel.

Lizzie returned the note to its hiding place with the very tips of her fingers, arranged the wallet and calendar the way she’d found them and walked to the window. Cabs and buses glided by in the narrow street outside, carrying people off for another busy morning in London. “What am I doing,” she muttered.

“I’m sorry?” Darcy had emerged from the bathroom and was gazing at her quizzically as he slid the knot of his tie into place.

“You should get going.” She turned to face him, her smile overly bright. “You’re going to be late.”

 

* * *

 

Lizzie arrived at Bedford Square at precisely 4:45 PM, wearing her most grown-up dress and coat, with extra bobby pins in her hair. Bloomsbury Publishing was situated in a terrace of Georgian houses, dark brick with tall narrow windows, dotted with round blue signs celebrating the famous British authors who once lived there. She exhaled slowly as she walked past the spiked iron fence and through the front door.

“Ms. Bennet.” Nora Chancellor’s deep, aristocratic voice rang through the reception area several minutes later.

“Hello,” Lizzie managed, wide-eyed. Ms. Chancellor was tall, dressed in a silk blouse and wool trousers, with wiry dark hair, angular features and piercing blue eyes beneath thick brows. Her handshake was firm to the point of being uncomfortable.

“I’ve wanted to meet you for some time,” she tossed over her shoulder as she led the way through the bustling publishing house. She sat down behind her glass-topped desk, gesturing Lizzie to a chair, and looked her over with a cool, discerning gaze. “William has told me so much about you.”

“Thank you...” It felt like the wrong thing to say. Lizzie crossed her ankles and tried not to fidget.

“Let’s get right to the point, shall we?” Ms. Chancellor paged through Turning Page Productions’ folder of promotional material. “You certainly have a diverse portfolio for a fledgling company of your size.” Her head tilted slightly as a detail caught her attention. “Médecins Sans Frontières. Impressive.”

“Yes.” Lizzie clutched at the opening like it was a lifeline. “The video series will be going online in March, and at the risk of getting ahead of myself, I think it lays the groundwork for a real step forward in digital advertising…”

“We can discuss that later,” the older woman interjected smoothly. “At the moment, I’m more interested in this video diary of yours.”

Lizzie’s stomach plummeted. Ms. Chancellor’s fingernails clicked against the keyboard as she brought up the company website and scrolled to the “Lizzie Bennet Diaries” playlist.

“I must say,” she said at length, “you made quite the audacious entrance to the digital media industry. Am I to understand that you spent months insulting a high-profile executive on the Internet, using his full name, without his knowledge or consent?”

“Yeah, um…” Lizzie swallowed. “Not my wisest decision, but...”

Ms. Chancellor glanced up from the screen and smiled. “Small wonder William is so worried about privacy issues these days.”

Lizzie looked down at her hands folded in her lap. It was over. She’d blown it. Face-planted before she could even get out of the gate.

“If I may be frank with you, Ms. Bennet, I wonder if there isn’t a certain lack of … well, of decorum in your online discussions. I’ve been following your recent literature series, and at times your viewers seem almost disrespectful toward the subject.”

The mention of her viewers brought Lizzie’s head up. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“No?” Ms. Chancellor’s smile had gone from polite to something else – challenging, maybe even amused.

“Not at all.” No point in holding back now, Lizzie thought. She crossed her legs at the knee and squared her shoulders. “Just because my viewers use the hyperbolic language of social media doesn’t mean they’re not taking the discussion seriously. They’re incredibly passionate and insightful about the books we read, and they’re not afraid to approach the narrative from new angles. It would be a big mistake to dismiss online communities just because you’re unfamiliar with the culture.”

An expression of clarity flickered across Ms. Chancellor’s face, like she’d made up her mind about something. She returned her attention to the website. “Perhaps,” she conceded. “Still, I’m not sure if Bloomsbury Publishing is quite ready to embrace the idea of fan fiction based on _David Copperfield_ …” Her eyebrows shot up. “Explicit content? Good heavens.”

“I dunno, I thought the steampunk ‘Doctor Who’ crossover was the real surprise.”

To Lizzie’s astonishment, Ms. Chancellor threw back her head and laughed a warm handsome laugh that could be heard clear across the office. “‘Doctor Who’!” she exclaimed. “In a Dickens novel! Well, it wouldn’t be the strangest thing those fans have done, would it?”

“You have no idea.” Lizzie found herself grinning from ear to ear.

“I must admit to years of unrequited love for Peter Capaldi, so I can understand the impulse, at least.” Ms. Chancellor laughed again and passed her hand across her brow. “Oh, dear. I don’t know about you, Ms. Bennet…”

“Lizzie.” The relief was glorious. She almost could have hugged her.

“Well then, Lizzie, I’ve had an absolute bugger of a week and I’m desperate for a drink. What would you say to conducting our interview elsewhere? I have a favorite old pub on Fleet Street that should suit us both quite well. William can come find us when he pleases.”

“Dear lord, yes.”

Within the hour the two women were settled in a high-backed, wood-paneled booth in a tavern that dated back to the 1700s, drinking ale and having one of the most fascinating discussions of Lizzie’s career. Nora, as it turned out, had climbed the ranks of publishing from the humble beginnings of a teenaged secretary. She was traditional in many ways, but she was also determined that publishers and writers should thrive in the digital age. She spoke at length, enough for an entire podcast series, on her efforts to evolve the industry and drag her more reluctant colleagues with her.

“Would you say that ambition has contributed to your personal reputation for, um…?”

“Being unpleasant, you mean,” she chuckled. “I imagine so, but most of it is just a fondness for causing trouble. I’d rather have the people I work with prepared for battle than thinking they can charm their way past me.”

“Ah.” Lizzie smiled. “Hence my warm welcome back at the office.”

Nora quirked an eyebrow over the top of her pint glass. “One can hardly blame me for being careful. The only personal accounts I’ve had of you are from William and Catherine, and I can’t trust either of them to be the least bit objective.” She made a note in the top margin of Lizzie’s portfolio. “Your social media strategy does have potential, by the way. I’ll have someone from digital publishing contact you. They have a series of young adult e-books in progress that might be just what you’re looking for.”

They were well into their third round and trading management horror stories by the time Darcy arrived, looking a bit worn around the edges. Nora rose to meet him and gripped his hand in both of hers. The gesture was somehow businesslike and motherly at the same time.

“She’s a sweet girl, William,” she declared, like it was the final word on the matter. “How on earth did you manage it?”

“Badly,” he said. Lizzie grinned at him and he shifted close until her shoulder was tucked comfortably against his, her hand resting on his knee.

“Yes, so I hear.” Nora gave Lizzie a conspiratorial look. “You should be proud; it’s a family tradition. I remember when his father was courting Anne – she and I were at school together, you see, and one day he was so desperate to impress her, he managed to ride his bicycle into a lamp post, over a bridge railing and into a half-frozen duck pond.”

“What!” Lizzie squeaked through her fingers. “Oh, no!”

“Yes, indeed. Earned himself a case of hypothermia and the university a health and safety inspection. Not the most auspicious beginning to a relationship – though I imagine the sight of his fine figure in a wet shirt was not unhelpful.”

“Nora,” Darcy laughed, cringing.

“Oh hush, what would you know.” She waved down a waiter for the supper menu. “Now then. How are things at Pemberley Digital? Tell me all the news.”

Darcy filled her in on his current projects and the latest updates from Gigi, then trudged through his usual complaints about the office politics over Domino. Nora listened carefully as their meals arrived and proceeded to spend the next hour scolding him up one side and down the other. “I’ve never met anyone so fond of beating his head against walls as you are,” she exclaimed, sending Lizzie into a fit of giggles. “Come now, you’ve known the majority of your board of directors since you were ten. Surely they’re not that difficult to outmaneuver.”

“Yes, I know.” He pressed the tips of his fingers against his forehead, grinning sheepishly. “I’ve felt out of focus on the issue for months – though in my defense, Aunt Catherine’s enthusiasm will do that to a person.”

“Don’t I know it.” Nora’s dry smirk was not without affection. “She’s been writing to me every week about your supposed lack of discipline. For all our sakes, William, find a way to calm her down.”

He was in the middle of making some playful remark when his phone went off, practically on cue. “Speaking of whom…” He gazed beseechingly at the ceiling, knocked back the last of his drink and stood up. “Excuse me for a moment.”

“Give her my love, would you?” She waved him off, apparently preoccupied with the last of her braised lamb and asparagus, but a moment later she was shaking her head as she watched him thread his way through the crowded tavern. “Oh, dear boy,” she sighed, then fixed Lizzie with a stern look. “I am being absurdly sentimental, and you are not to breathe a word of it.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Lizzie laughed.

Nora smiled at her. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I’m glad you two are together. He needs someone like you. He’s so much like his father.”

“Really?” Lizzie glanced in Darcy’s direction; his dark hair and perfect posture were just visible in the entryway. “I thought you said William’s dad goofed off all the time.”

“Oh yes,” Nora said, “but that sort of humor can be just as effective for holding people at arm’s length, you know. Once Bill realized that Anne was having none of it, he set himself straight in a hurry.”

She took a long, philosophical pull from her glass. “But then, it’s often been that way with the Darcys – they tend to need another willful personality to balance them out. You could fill an historical anthology with all their famous pairings of one kind or other.”

“So, no pressure, then.” Lizzie smiled tightly and fidgeted with her napkin. “I’m not sure how I feel about people needing a love interest to complete them.”

“Complete them!” Nora replied with a short laugh. “Goodness, no. Do some reading on the sordid affair between modernist poet C. M. Darcy and her ‘lady companion,’ when you have a spare moment. It’s enough to put you off romance forever.”

“Oh, I thought— Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude…”

Nora waved her embarrassment aside. “The point, my dear, is that critics widely agree she would not have been so driven to succeed without that unfortunate relationship in her life. It’s not always a romantic attachment, either. Sometimes inspiration comes from a business partner, a political opponent, even a long-dead classical composer.”

Her eyes crinkled as she settled back in her seat. “But I must warn you, Miss Elizabeth. When it is romantic, when a Darcy falls in love, it tends to be legendary. Lives changed, mountains moved, all that sort of thing.”

“Oh,” said Lizzie faintly.

Nora shrugged, her face suddenly impassive. Darcy had finished his phone call and was on his way back. “Frightfully inconvenient, if you ask me.”

 

* * *

 

It was past ten o’clock by the time they left. Nora declined a final round of drinks at the hotel and shooed them off along the pavement as she hailed a cab. “Our digital publishing team will be in touch next week, Lizzie. Keep an eye on her, William; she’ll be stealing your clients soon if you’re not careful.”

They walked back to the hotel along the Thames, taking their time. They only had the weekend left before Lizzie had to fly home and leave Darcy to another round of meetings, and the thought made her twine her arm tightly through his. The evening was foggy, giving a postcard look to the bridges and old-fashioned lampposts along the embankment. She could hear the low rumble of the city and the lap of the river. Off in the distance, Big Ben chimed the half-hour.

She bumped Darcy with her shoulder. “Still not used to it.”

“Of course not,” he said, smiling.

“Thanks for introducing me to Nora. I like her.”

“I’m glad you do.” His voice sounded fond and tired and just a bit drunk. “I should have arranged it sooner, but Gigi and I hear from her only once every few years – less often, now, since our parents passed away. I think she feels badly about it.”

“It sounds like they were really close.”

“They were. I believe she had feelings for my father at one point, but her friendship with my mother was more important to her. They all remained friends and colleagues for years.”

She glanced up at his face, half-hidden in the shadows beneath the trees, and stayed silent. He had talked about his family before, but not quite like this, wandering through old stories as they came to him.

“There was an entire group of them, centered around my parents and Nora and even Catherine, building their careers together when I was growing up. They were always making wildly ambitious plans and then turning them into reality without a second thought. I remember staying up as late as I could during their visits, hiding in corners to listen to their conversations.”

Darcy paused, lingering on the memory. “They made everything seem so easy. It was as if nothing in the world could stop them. I wish—”

His voice caught. It threw him off balance, like taking a step and finding empty space where solid ground should have been. The next moment he was drawing himself up and Lizzie could feel the words forming: it was nothing, he was sorry, he was fine. She gripped his arm and stopped, letting his momentum turn him toward her and bring him close. His mouth was warm and unsteady against hers.

She should have felt anxious or overwhelmed, feeling the full weight of him in her arms. She should have, but she didn’t.


	4. Chapter 4

Lizzie woke the next morning to a mild hangover and a warm tangle of limbs and pillows. It was still quite early, dawn light and city light just starting to blur together outside the hotel windows. She yawned and burrowed her face into the crook of Darcy’s arm, and felt his hand sweep along her side in response.

“Are you awake, Lizzie?”

“Mm-hm.” Which meant that in three days, back in San Francisco, she would barely be able to sleep past midnight. She stretched her arms and legs straight out, like a cat, and flopped back against his bare chest – but he was pushing himself upright and reaching for his phone on the nightstand. “You don’t have plans today, do you?” he said. “I was thinking…”

“Whoa, slow down.” She rubbed her eyes and blinked up at him. “What’s gotten into you?”

He wrapped her in a quick hug, his stubbly chin tickling her neck. “Let’s leave town for the weekend.”

“Leave town?” she repeated blankly. “And go where?”

“You’ll see,” he said, then smiled at the squinty-eyed look she gave him. He swung his feet to the floor, put on his glasses and started sorting through his clothes. “Just a few hours north. It will be a lovely drive. You haven’t seen the countryside yet.”

Lizzie sat up, clutching the sheets to her chest. “Wait, you mean _now?_ Don’t you have work to catch up on or something?”

“It can be rescheduled.”

“But… William, wait.” She caught his hand with a breathless laugh, before he could run off. “I’d love to go, of course I would, but I don’t want to be a distraction. You said you needed to focus.”

He turned back just long enough to cradle her face in his hands and brush kisses across her forehead, her chin, the bridge of her nose. “That’s what I’m doing. Come on, come with me.”

She’d learned a while ago that Darcy was a force to be reckoned with when he was feeling impulsive. Half an hour later he’d dressed and shaved, left detailed instructions with three personal assistants, packed a bag and arranged for an environmentally-friendly rental car to be waiting outside the lobby. Lizzie made him stop in the lounge for scones and hot coffee, which she cradled in her lap in the passenger seat, the sleeves of her old cardigan pulled over her hands. Darcy wore a dark v-necked sweater with patches on the elbows and, to her complete delight, a classic wool tweed cap. She teased him about it all the way out of London.

“If I catch you smoking a pipe I will break up with you.”

“Fair enough,” he laughed. He maneuvered the car through a roundabout and onto the M1.

“So tell me, did you buy the special Driving In England outfit when we got here, or have you been saving it for just such an occasion?”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response…”

“You totally saved it. Hey, can I borrow the hat later? I have to costume theater _Oliver Twist_ , it’ll be perfect.”

“No. You’ve hurt my hat’s feelings.”

They finished breakfast and listened to Saturday morning talk shows on the BBC as the sun climbed above the rooftops. The sky was pale blue and the hedges along the motorway were tangled and damp. Sometimes they chatted easily about the radio interviews – a former pop star, a celebrity chef – but Darcy had the vague, eager look of someone chasing after ideas in his head, and Lizzie was happy to watch the suburbs and farmland go rolling by. She traced their course on the roadmap and smiled at the names of cities and villages they passed: Thornton, Nottingham, Papplewick (“It’s the name of our new indie band!”).

She dozed for a while, lulled by the hum of the car, and the next thing she knew they had left the M1 and were following a winding road through beautiful countryside bathed in morning sunlight. There were cozy brick houses with smoking chimneys, gnarled oak trees scattering leaves along the road, old stone churches and country pubs with names like “The Three Horseshoes.” Wooded hills and valleys opened up ahead of them.

“Wow,” she said. “Where are we, exactly?”

“Derbyshire,” Darcy said.

Lizzie glanced at him; he had a soft half-smile on his face. “You’ve been here before?”

“Long ago. It hasn’t changed much.”

They arrived in a picturesque market town with gray stone buildings lining the narrow streets. It was a bright, busy autumn day. Locals wandered through the shops in the town center and mingled with tourists about to set off for walks in the Peak District. Tomorrow, Darcy promised, they would drive further into the national park and take in the sweeping views from Stanage Edge, the rock formation he’d hiked as a boy with his parents just before Gigi was born. Today he had something else in mind.

There was a room available at the ivy-strewn inn by the river – not the best room, not even a particularly big one, but charmingly rustic with its low beamed ceiling and its narrow window overlooking the courtyard. Lizzie wrapped her arms around Darcy’s waist, tucked her chin against his chest and told him she loved it. It took them the rest of the morning to leave the room.

“This isn’t what you wanted to show me, was it?”

“Oh, for god’s sake.”

“Because I mean it’s _nice_ and everything, but I’ve seen it. Lots and lo— GAHH NO TICKLING! Evil!”

They had lunch in the pub downstairs and took a walk through town, but Darcy still wouldn’t tell her his plans for the afternoon, not even when they got back in the car and drove through the woods and pastures for a few pleasant miles. Finally the signs along the road confirmed her suspicions, and she was surprised to feel her heart fluttering in her chest as they passed through a gate into a large park. After half a mile the trees suddenly opened up and she found herself gazing across a sun-dappled valley to Pemberley House, serene and stately behind a curve of the river, nestled against high wooded hills.

Several giddy jokes flashed through her head as they followed the gravel drive toward the historic stone building – “Oh, is that all?” or “We’re not moving in, if that’s what you’re thinking” – but Darcy’s pensive expression made her think better of it. She took note of the classical architecture before gazing eagerly at the beautiful grounds and gardens surrounding the house.

“It’s noisier than I thought it would be,” she said as they climbed out of the car. There were dozens of visitors filing toward the entrance and wandering across the park toward the river – families with strollers, elderly couples walking arm-in-arm, a busload of tourists.

Darcy took her hand. “My grandparents made a point of donating Pemberley to the National Trust,” he said. His voice was hushed, with respect but also with amusement, like he was playing a secret joke by showing up at the family estate unannounced. “It was too expensive for them to maintain properly, and they felt it was important to keep it open to the public. We’ve supported the place ever since.”

They stood in line and bought tickets along with everyone else. Lizzie paid for the two of them, winking at Darcy, as if the bored girl behind the counter would go berserk if she saw the name on his credit card. As they passed through the entrance hall with its baroque painted ceiling and black-and-white tiled floor, their elderly tour guide explained how the estate was passed down through fourteen generations before it was given over to the Crown. Just in the past few years, the Darcys had donated a substantial sum toward the art collections and the library.

“That was awfully nice of them,” Lizzie said admiringly. The group had paused to see the library, an elegant room of polished wood and velvet brocade, with leather-bound volumes lining the walls from floor to ceiling. She wanted to curl up in one of the armchairs and never leave.

“I had no idea how extensive the refurbishment was,” Darcy whispered back. “I should pay closer attention when I’m signing checks.”

He’d taken out a Montblanc pen and was writing on the pages of his tour pamphlet, until photographs of the estate were surrounded by notes about _community_ and _accessibility_ and _story_ , many ending in question marks. Now he paused to watch two children, a blonde girl of about ten and her little brother, being coaxed by their parents to examine a display of Audubon bird prints.

“It’s strange,” he said after a moment. “Mother and Father lectured me endlessly about this place, the last time I was here – how our family legacy should belong to everyone. I don’t think I truly understood what they meant.”

His gaze lingered on Lizzie as he spoke. She glanced up at the rows of books and rubbed her arms. “It’s a lot to think about,” she murmured.

As the tour group wandered through the upper floors of the house, Lizzie and Darcy found themselves walking behind the family from the library. They were from Sheffield, and the blonde girl’s name was Jenny, and the rumple-headed boy sprawled over his dad’s shoulder was Colin and he was four and a half, and Lizzie knew these things because Colin got bored after the third guest bedroom and decided to tell her all about himself.

“Your hair’s pretty,” he announced.

“Oh, I like you,” Lizzie laughed. “Nobody else has said my hair’s pretty today.”

Darcy hid a smile and sighed. “I agree, it is very pretty.”

The children’s mother grinned back at them. She had the cheerfully exhausted look of a parent on holiday, and was grateful for the distraction. “Now you’ve done it,” she said, “he’ll be asking to take you home with us next.”

Jenny walked sideways for a moment to give Darcy a this-is-what-I-have-to-deal-with look. “He does that _all the time_.”

“I see,” Darcy replied solemnly.

“Mum said we could have pudding later!” said Colin.

Lizzie gasped. “No way!”

The tour ended at a café and gift shop leading out to the terrace. The visitors spilled out into the brisk afternoon air, and Jenny and Colin ran down the statue-lined steps to the lawn, shouting at the tops of their voices after an hour of keeping quiet. Lizzie followed them, pulling Darcy with her, and laughed as something in the garden caught her attention.

“Well of course it has a hedge maze, what civilized home doesn’t.” She peered through the maze’s arched entrance. “Want to try it?”

Darcy looked warily into the neatly trimmed corridors. Their thick green walls stood about a foot over his head. “I’ll pass, thank you. I went in there when I was a child and it took me twenty minutes to find my way out. I hated it.”

“Aww,” she teased, “were you scared?”

“No, it was just … inefficient.”

She considered this, watching Jenny and Colin chase each other across the grass nearby. Then she grabbed Darcy’s hat off his head and, before he could do more than yelp in surprise and reach clumsily after her, sent it sailing like a Frisbee into a corner of the hedge. “Oops,” she said, “look what happened.”

“Lizzie, god d— ” Darcy remembered the now-giggling children in the nick of time. “What am I going to do with you!”

“Stop whining, would you?” She laughed at him, brushing her tangled curls out of her face. “You’re a big important CEO, I’m sure you can figure this out.”

He looked at her, grinning despite himself, then clasped his hands behind his back and raised his voice. “I have a ten pound note for whomever can bring me my hat.”

Jenny and Colin gasped and raced each other into the maze, limbs flailing. “Hey!” sputtered Lizzie. “That’s cheating!”

“It’s delegating,” he replied airily.

“William!” She punched him in the arm, but she was laughing as she did it. “You ruined my metaphor, you jerk!”

Darcy sidestepped and wrapped his arms around her as she tumbled against him. “Point taken, Ms. Bennet.”

The kids’ parents had caught up and were smiling at them as they walked down to the lawn. A moment later Jenny came running out of the maze, waving Darcy’s hat in the air. “It was _really_ easy,” she declared.

“Not fair!” Her brother trailed after her, pouting.

“It is so! I’m faster than you.” Jenny turned to Darcy and held out her hand. “I won ten quid, please.”

“You did indeed,” he said, handing the money over, “and I am sure you will be very generous with it.”

“That’s right, darling!” her mother warned.

Jenny heaved a theatrical sigh, then took Colin’s hand before his scowl could get any worse. “Mum, can we please go buy some cakes at the café?”

Colin brightened immediately and went bounding up the steps. His father grinned and clapped Darcy on the shoulder. “Come on, we’re getting you both a coffee for that. No arguing.”

The two couples swapped introductions as they headed back to the terrace, Darcy’s name earning him a few good-natured jokes. As she reached the top of the steps, Lizzie raised her eyes and caught a glimpse of his broad shoulders and the courteous tilt of his head, framed by the columns of the old house. The weathered yellow stone caught the afternoon sunlight and glowed against the blue sky, like a scene from a painting.

An odd thrill went through her and she shivered. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them Jenny and Colin were calling to their parents in high excited voices, telling them to hurry up. There were rows of cakes and pastries to choose from, and they wanted souvenirs from the gift shop. Darcy gave her an amused glance over his shoulder.

“Goodness, aren’t you lucky,” the kids’ mother whispered playfully to Lizzie. “I’d hold onto that one if I were you.”

Lizzie smiled. “I’ll certainly try.”


End file.
